When quakes shall root out foundings to the core,
When bold Abora shakes with cholic roar,
Then let the one in Caledonia weep
That man so rashly lays him down to sleep.
How small a loss it were to lose a race
Of mighty mind and self assured face,
Who write their songs with fingers in the sand,
And like Sir Spens, go walking on the strand
Yet still a pity should we lose our hope,
Our grandiose, death-defying hope,
The wondrous fever of the human show,
Incessant questing, time always our foe...
Before the solemn eyes of aged Pope
Man holds the last spectacular at bay.
No more we weep; the moon is full again
Today; Eternity is then tomorrow.